Special Sauce
by MihoAnsatsu
Summary: A certain Montana must go off and do a certain thing. It's safe to say that not everyone in the clan approves.


If there's one name Clint City and the other clans have thrown upon me alongside Enzo Romero, it's wanker. Sometimes it's 'Ferrari Wanker'. But what they don't realise is how hard it is to be a wanker in my own clan. Masturbation for some of the Montana is one of those areas you do not go near. Well, I say some but I really mean one, and I say one but I really mean...well. I'd just be spoiling if I named any names right now.

There is one name I can name right now though, Desmond, and he's sat at Moses' piano having a cheeky tinker with the keys; being Moses' 'son', he's freely allowed to, but doesn't dare risk inviting anyone else to have a little tune. Because the old-timer is very protective of his piano. Well, I _say_ tune, but all Desmond's doing is playing the same three notes over and over again.

"Play another one, Des," I say, pressing one of the keys at random just for the heck of it. "That poor piano's going to get repetitive strain injury."

Desmond doesn't even acknowledge my little comment as he keeps his attention on the instrument and wipes the key I pressed as if I have some sort of contagious disease.

"Right, Enzo's off for a cheeky little wank," I say, giving him a quick wink as I hoist myself from my leaning position on the piano's ebony 'shell'.

"Good luck," He replies, his eyes flashing me a knowing glance. "Just remember. Leave no trace if you don't want to get caught."

"I know, I know," I say, casually giving a dismissive wave; deep inside being a different story though, as I can hear my heart beat frantically. My trip to the bathroom is almost like an espionage mission in the fact that I can't afford to let a single person see me, not even upon closing and locking the door.

As I sit myself down on the toilet seat and just about manage to let my trousers and boxers fall to the floor, I feel my fingers automatically glide to where they're supposed to go; grabbing the toilet paper in a somewhat needy manner before heading towards the 'production zone". However, every time I hear footsteps, I tense up quite madly and have to pause until I feel comfortable and alone again. There's nothing worse than trying to have a wank and feeling like the world and their mama can hear you.

Still, you never know just how much time you have so I'm giving it all I've got and just about ready to rip my cock off. I can feel my straining grow louder and louder as I somewhat struggle to reach some kind of climax. Not even my wildest 'Jessie and I" fantasies seem to be bringing anything up. I feel really bad for doing this but I may have to cast my mind over some of the other women in Clint City. Like Jessie's red-headed friend...dio, she can give me first aid anytime. Lucia in the Ulu Watu is hot as cazzo aswell...though I have to be careful to make sure Felicia doesn't loom over my thoughts at any time. Bros before hoes. I doubt Griezzo would wanna hear about the time I wanked to his 'Little Guppy'.

"Enzo, are you ok in there?" A voice suddenly asks, sounding rather concerned as they knock upon the door.

"It's ok, Confucius," I reply, managing to keep my own voice calm and level. "Just making some 'Special Sauce', if you know what I mean."

"You're an odd one, Romero," he then says, barely missing a beat before I hear his footsteps moving away from the bathroom door. Sighing with relief, I begin to clean up my little mess as in my flurry of tension, I managed to get a few tiny splashes on the seat. Nothing a little bit of toilet paper won't fix, yet I find I'm still at it in terms of making the sauce.

At that moment, I feel my phone vibrating in my trouser pocket in a rather familiar way; one long buzz followed by then three short ones, and I know that's Desmond's warning signal. Warning me of what, you may ask?

"Enzo! Open the door! Don't think I don't know what you're frickin' up to in there!"

Warning me of HIM, and by him...I mean Tino. The big guy. He can eat people with no problem at all and cannot understand why people find his habit disgusting...yet he can't even say the word masturbation without turning a little green. Ever been a pig about to vomit? It's not pretty.

"It's not natural!"

"_You're_ not natural, you fat buta!" I yell, realising what I've just shouted before I can stop myself; the banging getting louder and more intense as a result, I find myself frozen to the toilet seat in fear.

"Open this door so I can fucking _kill_ you!" He yells, sounding extremely pissed off now I've pressed that berserk button. As for now, I'm frantically pressing the 'keys' on my touch screen as if my life depends on it. Which it probably does.

"Desmond Desmond Desmond, bail bail _bail_!" I find myself saying as I send my own warning signal; managing to drop my phone into the toilet bowl in my panicked state, I can only hope that I actually managed to press send and Desmond makes a move before the big guy busts the door open.

Wait, hang on...he doesn't need to know what's been going on. For all he knows, I could have just been taking a dump, and that's a card I'm more than willing to play.

"Are you going to let me finish taking this shit or not?" I call out, trying to make my tone sound nonchalant.

"Yeah, the Clint City Oscars just called, you didn't win the award," he responds, not skipping a beat and sounding even more irritated with every second. "I swear, you have a problem."

Excuse me...once again, he eats people and he has the cheek to say that _I_ have a problem. Though I can't stall anymore so I guess it's time to clean up my act and get myself out of there; not before washing my hands though, as the big guy's sense of smell is second to none. Sometimes I think Confucius should call him 'Inu' instead of Buta. Inu's Japanese for dog, by the way.

"What's new, big guy?" I cheekily ask upon opening the door, daring a smirk as I poke him on the nose.

"Enzo, you sick bastardo, that's the hand you've been ma...ma...maaah."

I told you he can't even say the word masturbation. He frantically wipes the imaginary speck on his nose, looking quite disgusted as he does so, before smacking me something rotten round the head; in his eyes, I most likely deserve it. Especially when he notices the familiar purple sight in my hands.

"Lorenzo Romero, were you...were you doing it with my SOCKS?!"

What I failed to tell you guys was that during my little production session, I ran out of toilet paper to clean everything up. He can chase me around the casino and try to kill me all he wants but it's completely and entirely his own damn fault for leaving them lying around...


End file.
